


Tuesday May 20, 2003

by Quinara



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Chosen, Episode Related, F/M, Poetry, fitb, season: b7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-21
Updated: 2010-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinara/pseuds/Quinara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Verse is a bad habit. She picked it up from him.</p><p>[Buffy's diary, the night before the battle.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday May 20, 2003

**02:12**

**Terrified, you said, and I replied**  
Well, now I can’t remember, but I said  
I told you  
The words flipped circles from my tongue  
The words I can’t remember now  
But know I said them  
Somewhere  
Someway  
Somehow  
Speech came to me and carried you away  
On wings  
Like all that trashy mush you like  
About that urn  
(I’ve gotta learn sometime the things you know  
So I can see inside your head  
And know the way you see the world  
The way that you see me

**I told you**  
Someone told you  
Someone really should have told you  
Maybe me – I told you  
You don’t have to be afraid  
(My fear’s enough for both of us)

(Nix that  
I wish you’d nix that

**There is a love inside me**  
Unfocused  
But still true  
It falls on you, sometimes  
Like when you look at me  
Or stand near me  
Or mooch around in another room  
(Or go out at night  
Or exist  
Or  
)

.  
.  
.

**03:26**

~~There’s one night left.~~

Spike, I know you’re reading this.

I know you’re not asleep.  
I know that when I turn my head your eyes will close  
but you’ll be smiling, so  
DON’T

 

Oh, sure, shuffle and murmur all you want.

I can’t write while you’re watching…

 

Oh, Spike, the vampire who hangs in my house!  
He is annoying, smells like cigarettes,  
Won’t go to sleep, be that not-stirring mouse,  
Eats Giles’ Jaffa Cakes ‘til there’s none l/

 

_Apocalypse is nigh, but Buffy writes  
(Or so she did before I stole the pen)  
And now I think she wants to start a fight,  
Will call me soon a waste of oxygen._

_She does not know (ha ha!) that I don’t breathe…  
You’d think she would have picked that up, of course,  
But slayers these days? Well, sometimes they leave  
Their training early – cart before the horse._

_Poor vampire, I – a slayer in his bed  
Who does not know the ropes of killing things.  
Will I have to protect the house instead?  
And shield us from the darkness this night brings?_

_All right, that was a joke, love, you’ve the balls  
To slay whatever beastie spies us here –  
Go on, protect us (though you’re not that tall)  
And make that horrid shadow disappear._

_Well slayed, I’ll say, when thou hast slayed it dead,  
And I’ll accept that balls are not required  
To rid the world of demons, make them bleed,  
Or else be by those demons well admired._

_Damn right I will admire you, your skill  
In chasing shadows back to native dark;  
I’ll look on you in light, you know I will,  
And see it limn your features bright and stark._

_So go, my slayer, fight this awful night,  
Defend me from its cruel and wicked ways!  
Or maybe you could stay here, make no fight,  
And we could sleep on till the morrow’s day?_

 

Okay, I’ll stay here, Spike, but tell me this –  
How come you’re so in practice with this form?  
‘Cause clearly all along we’ve been remiss  
In seeing what you hide beneath your scorn!

You told me you wrote verses; now I see  
The way your hand scrawls messages and know.  
This is your calling! Just like mine to me!  
A drive you can’t avoid, a sign you’ll show.

And that, that’s pretty funny, don’t you think?

_Oh, piss off, Emily Dickinson, all right?_

I love the thought of you and stains of ink…

 

_In nasty places, ‘cause – guess how I write?_

Why, Spike, I’m shocked!  
           So you write in the nude?  
_Don’t seem that shocked to me there, Slayer._  
                                                                            Well,  
I guess that’s how you’d write with attitude  
_And shoot your prissy image all to hell._

I guess, but Donne and Byron, they’d do it.  
_Been having fantasies of them, I s’pose?_  
You know me, baby, oil and fights on grit.  
_With Angel and his Barry Manilow?_

 

Wow, way to go there…  
                                That was pretty bad.  
_Just got to keep your eyes from tinting rose._  
But where’s the pretty picture gone? I’m sad.

_Where vanish dreams and fancy’s flight? Who knows?_

 

OK, you win, with purple   -murple ~~prose~~ verse.  
_I think you win with ‘murple’ as a word._  
You’ve had a century just to rehearse!  
_You’re right. I’ve words you’ve never even heard._

Are these the things we did that you can’t spell?  
_They could be, yeah.  
                            Shame I can’t write them down._  
This notebook has no lock; it’s just as well –  
_I s’pose we wouldn’t want word getting round._

Though, Dawn, hey, reader, hi! No need for you  
_To worry what the holy Buffy did_  
Or what corrupt thing Spike would have me do  
_Or what is hidden in the Slayer’s id_  
Or what the lies are he would say are true  
_Or how she thought my limbs worked like a squid_  
Or how he thought that when I died I grew  
_Or how she tied me up to do her bid_  
Or how he liked to strain his wrists bright blue  
_Or how blissed out she’d lie there cosseted_  
Or how Big Bad got off on that one too!  
_Or how when you’d wake up you’d flip your lid._

 

I’ll be here in the morning.  
                                  
                                _All right, love._  
You want we stop? I’ll put the pen away.  
_We’re both as silent as they are above._

Kay, no more rhymes – what do you want to

.


End file.
